The Pianist
by TheSilentPen
Summary: 'The voice knew and understood. The pianist understood.' Two weeks before Christmas, a disillusioned Quinn Fabray finds herself enchanted by coffeehouse singer, Rachel Berry. Rachel teaches Quinn that there's more to life than what others expect of you.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Glee or any of these characters, nor do I own The Christmas song.

**A/N:** Hey, and belated Merry Christmas to all! The inspiration for this Fanfic came from playing Christmas carols with my band at the local mall. The set up was near a small coffee shop, and people often came to sit and listen with a cup of coffee. I was going to submit this to Faberry week, but I don't think it's NEARLY Christmasy enough for it.

Quinn's a mess at the start of the fic. She's at odds with her faith and her 'baby gate' experience made her a mess. It's about two weeks from Christmas at the start of the fic.

Let me know what you all think, yeah? I've been working on this a lot, and I'm sorry it wasn't out for Christmas... but this is my belated present to all you amazing people. Please **review**, I'd love to hear your comments.

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><p><strong>The Pianist<strong>

_TheSilentPen_

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><p>The coffee tasted like bitter ash as it slid down her throat, leaving a thick, viscous trail in its wake.<p>

Quinn shuddered as she felt the awful flavoring settle at the base of her throat. She held the full paper cup away from her body, shaking her head and sighing.

All she'd wanted to do was find a place. A place to get a decent cup of coffee and sulk in peace.

Instead, she'd ended up in an unbelievably janky coffeehouse on the other side of Lima, far, far away from her judgmental mother, her judgmental Church, and her judgmental school. She'd failed the simplest task of finding a simple cup of caffeine.

'_Just like I've fucked up everything **else** in my life,'_ Quinn thought as she folded her arms on the chipped up, mahogany table and sank onto its cold surface. Hazel eyes wandered about the shop, with its cheesy green and red tinsel, cheap plastic tree, and silent inhabitants.

On the small stage at the very back of the small shop, some starry-eyed dreamer, with his tobacco stained smile, sang an off-key version of 'I'll Be Home For Christmas' at the top of his lungs whilst trying to play the beat up, black-glossed Baldwin piano.

Needless to say, the man wasn't a very good multi-tasker. Every time he played the piano, his vocals would falter. If he dared to focus on his vocals, the notes on the ivory keys hit an odd sharp or flat.

But the people listening didn't seem to care, lost in their own worlds. They sat, heads down and misty-eyed, reminiscing about some failing that landed them in Lima, Ohio with their dreams shattered.

All the people in that tiny little coffee shop were kindred spirits. Broken dreamers.

And none had become more shattered, more distorted than Quinn Fabray.

Quinn Fabray, former Head Cheerleader with the Quarterback boyfriend, all American Girl. Beautiful, untouched, loved by all, adored by her parents… Wholesome, undamaged… every boy's dream and every girl's envy.

Quinn Fabray, the girl who fell from grace by cheating on her boyfriend with his best friend. Fell from the favor of her parents by getting knocked up by a Jewish delinquent, fell from the top of social hierarchy, fell out of favor with her friends.

The former cheerleader let out a bitter chuckle as she observed the steam rise up through the cover of her drink. Fell out of favor with her God because he'd punished her.

_Cursed _her…

_Cursed_ her by making her incapable of loving man…

…And instilling in her a lust for women.

The bitter irony of the truth tore into Quinn's heart. She dropped her head into her hands as she recalled the first moments of that dreadful revelation with anger in her heart.

She'd been accepted back into her home. Her mother took her back in after that _thing_… that _child_, with her bright hazel eyes and brownish hair, was tugged from her body and handed off into the unknown.

She had a chance to do everything all over again. She could _have_ the boyfriend, the social status back. She could have _everything_ back. She would reconcile for straying off.

And for a while, it seemed as though everything had been back on track. Quinn worked her way back into society on a decent rung. People were inviting her to parties again, boys desired her again.

Then _she_ came into her life… that _vixen_ with the blue eyes and perfect black hair. That girl, who pressed herself wantonly against Quinn, tempted her, and exposed the cheerleader's carnal desires.

"_Harmony_," Quinn's fist tightened against the cup, shaking as she recalled every moment of the encounter. The kisses. The hot press of glossy lips against her neck and delicate, wandering hands holding her.

Everything about the situation was the same as the moment she'd conceived her child. She was drunk, vulnerable, and there was someone there to hiss lies into her ears.

But this time, she'd felt the _desire_ coiling tight in her chest. The throbbing between her legs, something so foreign and frightening, could only be quelled by the touch of that minx's wicked hand.

The next morning, when she woke, she was naked, alone, and embarrassingly _wet_ between her thighs. She buried her face into her hands and cried, because she could not deny _this_… this _travesty_ anymore.

Quinn Fabray was a sinner that God condemned to suffer.

She couldn't look her mother honestly in the eyes anymore.

She was the fuck up…

She was _gay_.

Quinn sighed in relief as the smoker took his final bow to a chorus of polite clapping. Thank God, at least someone decided to have mercy on her ears.

But just as soon as the man shuffled off stage, another person took his place.

A small brunette timidly took a seat at the piano, placing the black, leather messenger bag hanging on her shoulder on the floor. Tiny fingers rifled through the sheet music.

Quinn studied the newest singer raptly. It wasn't everyday that someone her age and with… decidedly more teeth than the shop's regulars showed their face this deep into Lima.

The girl wore a deep red vest, layered over a white, short sleeved t-shirt that exposed toned arms to the viewer. Dark washed, denim Levi's hugged _long_ legs, with small feet clothed in a pair of black converse. Chocolate brown locks curled lightly and fell languidly down solid shoulders, exposing a fragile throat.

Finely carved features were covered over in tanned skin (which was a rarity, considering the fact that Lima was incredibly chilly a majority of the year) and accented by a heavy nose. A nose which, on anyone else, would have made Quinn—old Quinn—tell the possessor to get a nose job. But on this girl it… worked, made her seem a bit more exotic.

Burning hazel eyes locked on the singer as the girl turned on the stool, adjusting the microphone and setting the sheet music on the stand as she looked out into the audience.

"Hey, how's everybody doing tonight?" a smooth, flowing voice floated to Quinn's ears, sending a shiver down her spine. The girl smiled and waved as the crowd responded with a flurry of tentative murmurs. "I hope you don't mind if I do a few tunes for you tonight, in the spirit of Christmas. I promise not to make your ears bleed."

Wordlessly, the brunette turned back to the piano, adjusting the microphone once more before closing her eyes and setting small fingers against the keys.

Notes rose out of the janky old piano, calling out in gentle resonance. A slow, jazzy melody formed out of the organized chaos, manipulated into existence by the silent girl sitting on the bench.

Chapped, full lips parted. She licked her lips, took a deep breath, and began to sing.

"_Chestnuts roasting on an open fire… Jack Frost nipping at your nose…"_

Air left Quinn's lungs as she stared, wide-eyed at the girl stroking the keys.

That… that _voice_. It was rich and full, bursting at the seams with strange gentleness. It rose and fell with the sound of the piano, telling stories on its fragile edge.

It reminded Quinn of _better_ times. Of _better_ Christmases spent with her Father, Mother, and sister in perfect happiness. The sharp smell of gingerbread baking in the kitchen. The joyous sting of cold, snowy weather.

That voice… it _knew_. It _understood_. _She_ understood.

The _singer_ understood.

"…_They know that Santa's on his way. He's loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh. And every mother's child is going to spy… to see if reindeer really know how to fly_," the voice grew in strength and crescendoed as a beautiful cacophony of notes built behind it, stealing the air from Quinn's lungs once more.

The singer threw her head back, exposing a passionate face. She'd been transfigured by the singing. It seemed she was something… ethereal. Because the lights on the stage in that cheap little coffee house made her seem more vibrant, more _Godlike_ than anything.

"_And so I'm offering this… simple phrase… To kids from one to ninety-two. Although it's been said… many times, many ways… Merry Christmas… Merry Christmas! …Merry Christmas…"_

The final plang of notes sounded through the lonely coffeehouse as the singer lowered her head once more. "_Merry Christmas… to you."_

Quinn was jolted from her reverie as the room broke out in a series of applause. The singer stood from her place at the piano, chest heaving as she smiled, bowing.

The blonde forced her hands together, eyes never straying from the small figure on stage.

As the singer straightened from her last bow, hazel met with deep, chocolate brown orbs.

A connection flared between the two, pain surfacing on one end as understanding was offered on the other. Quinn found herself grasping at the napkin pressed in her hand, eyes never straying far from soulful brown.

But the connection was gone as soon as it formed. The crowd rushed about the singer and the brunette was forced to look away, breaking the steady lock.

Quinn, coming to her senses, felt panic fill the empty recesses of her mind. The pain, the memories… the ache of her sin _deep_ in her heart, came to the forefront. All at once, she felt as dirty as she had the morning she'd woken up alone, shame smeared against her thighs.

She pushed out of her chair quickly, running out the door, leaving behind a lonely cup of coffee and her shame.

It took three days before Quinn could work up the courage to return to the coffeehouse.

The brown-eyed singer frightened her. Facing the singer meant facing a part of herself that Quinn wasn't quite ready to deal with yet.

That strange, eerie sort of understanding that flared through her when those strange, brown eyes looked upon her scared Quinn. It was the first _positive_ emotion she'd felt in a long time. The first **meaningful** emotion.

And it had been caused by a **woman**.

Every lesson from bible school that had been engrained in Quinn's mind for years **screamed** not to go near the woman again. To head over to the church and seek the forgiveness of God for feeling something… _wanting_ of a woman, just as she had the day after she slept with Harmony.

But she couldn't face it again. The angry, pitying eyes of her pastor as he gazed at her through the metal slats of the confessional. Couldn't face her mother, half drunk and incoherent as she confessed her darkest sin.

A third choice was not possible. Face her God once more and beg for forgiveness her heart was not true to, or get to know this singer. This _person_ who'd made her feel more in one moment than she had in the last year.

She didn't approach the brunette on her first day returning to the coffeehouse. Merely sat in the corner of the room, listening to the girl belt out song after song with practiced ease, studying her.

At the end of the set, she tried to pull forth the courage to stride forward and speak with the singer as the brunette sat at the edge of the stage, chatting with the patrons with a bright smile on her face.

She strode forward, determined, only stopping when clear, chestnut colored pools flickered over to study her.

Quinn's throat went dry and all moisture flooded to her palms.

The brunette's lips curled into a gentle smile. She lifted a hand and waved at the rigid figure.

All thoughts of 'courage' and 'facing the singer' flew from Quinn's mind as dark eyes ripped the layers away once more. Quinn was collapsing in on herself, and that surge of self-loathing welled-up in her breast again.

She stumbled from the coffeehouse, falling to her knees in the freshly fallen snow, grasping at her chest as she fought in vain to choke the tears back behind the nonchalant barrier she'd been able to maintain easily since her fall from grace.

But the sight of deep brown eyes and kindness… of understanding, made the rift impossible to heal into the jagged, ugly scar her mind had become.

Quinn returned to the shop the next day, despite herself. It was a struggle to open the door, to listen to the annoying little clang of the bell, and sit in that same, far corner of the room whilst the mystifying singer continued to play away upon the lonely piano on the embarrassingly cheap stage.

And each day, at the end of the set, the singer would smile a small little smile, give Quinn a tentative wave, and disappear into the swarm of conversation coming from the adoring crowds of broken dreamers.

And every day, Quinn would try to _force_ herself to take the last few steps. To stand in front of the singer and just introduce herself. Say anything.

For a week, Quinn failed, words dying in her throat as soon as deep chocolate connected with pained hazel. Each day, the old wounds were forced open and she fell to pieces.

Yet she kept returning. Kept ripping everything open again.

Because she'd never felt so **drawn** to someone in her entire life.

She met the singer for the first time a week before Christmas, on a snowy Saturday afternoon.

The pianist had finished her latest set and sat at the bench, packing away her music into that black, leather messenger bag she kept slung across her shoulder or leaning against the chipped wooden leg of the bench.

Quinn watched the girl sit up, throw the bag's strap over her torso and adjust it whilst gently pulling the lid over the white and black keys.

The cup of ashy sludge in the blonde's hand went unchecked and fell, tumbling onto her white washed jeans.

Quinn cursed, eyes falling from the silent singer as she grabbed napkins from the dispenser on the table and pushed them to the growing stain on the denim fabric.

Of course, on the day she'd chosen to wear something white, she'd have to spill the damn drink.

So preoccupied with the mess in her lap, Quinn failed to hear the faint clatter of someone's approach, nor did she notice the shadow falling upon her.

"Have an accident?"

Quinn jumped, nearly knocking the table over as a rich chuckle sounded as a petite hand fell onto the blonde's shoulder, holding her steady.

Hazel orbs flew up and connected with smiling brown. A bolt shot through Quinn's shoulder, straight to her heart, electrifying each synapse, heightening her awareness.

"U-um," Quinn stumbled over the words. "I-I… I guess you could say so."

'_Shit_!" She'd screwed up once more. Screwed up meeting the one person she'd wanted to meet more than anyone else in the world. The singer must've thought Quinn was incapable of rational human thought.

But the brunette merely smiled, pulled a chair out, and proceeded to grab some napkins from the dispenser and aid in Quinn's attempts to clean her lap.

"I hate when this sort of thing happens," the singer continued on, in that melodious voice. "I have a tendency to spill cocoa all over my pajamas."

Quinn remained stiff as the girl wadded the used napkins up in her palm, placing them on the table. A grin split full lips, exposing perfectly straight, pearly white teeth.

"There, all better," the brunette chirruped. The smile fell short as she observed the stain. "But it seems like your jeans'll need to be bleached… once… twice… or… well, until the stain comes out."

"U-um, yeah." _'Smooth Fabray, ab-so-fucking-lutely smooth_._ The one day you need your smarmy charm, and it's left you.'_

The singer's eyes rose to connect with distressed hazel, twinkling in the minimal light of the coffee shop. A playful curl took residence on her lips. "I'm guessing you're not much of a conversationalist, hmm?"

A ruddy red took residence in Quinn's cheeks as the blonde looked away. "It's hard to be a conversationalist when you've messed up the damn introduction."

A chocolate eyebrow cocked up in amusement. "So you're blaming your wayward cup of joe for your sorry social skills?"

"Yes, yes, that's exactly what I'm telling you," Quinn crossed her arms, glaring at the smirking brunette. "And I don't appreciate your sarcasm, _stranger_."

"It seems we are **both** in need of a fresh introduction, hmm?" the singer hummed, that same easy smile sending tingles down Quinn's spine. "Would you be averse to that?"

The blonde's mouth went dry. "No… no, not at all."

"Alright!" a lithe hand shot forward. "Rachel Berry, future performer! And you?"

"Quinn," the blonde stiffly shook the pianist's… _Rachel's_ hand. "Quinn Fabray."

"Quinn Fabray," the singer said the name slowly, velvety voice caressing each syllable in a silken embrace. "It's very nice to meet you, Quinn."

"Likewise."

The singer leaned back in her chair, slouching comfortably into it. "So, what brings you to this half of Lima, Quinn?"

"This half…?" The blonde's brow furrowed in confusion.

"The bohemian half," Rachel motioned about the room at the contemplative onlookers, buried in their lost dreams. "The musicians. The artists… The lonely."

"We're kindred spirits, aren't we, then?" Quinn murmured, straightening in her chair.

"Lonely, then?" Rachel inquired smoothly. "I find it… hard to believe that a pretty girl like yourself would be lonely a week before Christmas."

The barriers rose about Quinn defensively, and before she could stop it from spewing forth from her mouth, it came. "I find it hard to believe that someone like you'd be here too."

A smile creased Rachel's lips. "Someone like me?"

"You sing well," Quinn shrugged her shoulders. "This coffee shop isn't for Lima losers… and you _clearly_ aren't a Lima loser. No one who sings that well can be lonely."

The twinkle in Rachel's eyes dimmed. "You'd be surprised."

"You can't be lonely," Quinn said incredulously. "Talented people aren't lonely."

That lesson had been pounded into her. Her father, mother, and church taught it each waking moment.

Talented… _well-liked_ people would always succeed. Special individuals would raise their stock in life. They attracted the right sort and rose to high positions in society.

Quinn strove to be talented. To be special and well-liked. It had gotten her the Quarterback on her arm, the position of Head Cheerleader, and the amassed the envy of every girl in school.

The Fabray family motto had yet to be proven wrong.

Yet Quinn had been broken by that motto. It made her attractive to even the darkest hearts at McKinley. It made Noah Puckerman lust after her, feed off her insecurities… bed her, knock her up.

Made her attractive in Harmony's intense eyes. Dragged out the carnal lusts of her depraved mind.

She had been the only victim of the curse of perfection. Of striving to **be** something in a small town of **nothings**.

Yet someone talented, someone _beautiful_ fell victim to this curse?

She was not alone?

'_It has to be a lie_,' Quinn's fist tightened, balling up the stained fabric of her jeans. '_It has to be a lie.'_

Rachel observed the blonde's tense figure with a neutral expression splayed across her features. A note of pity and deeper understanding washed into those wondrous eyes once more, making Quinn's barriers rise ever higher.

"I'm talented?" Rachel's shoulders quaked as she chuckled. Thin hands folded on the girl's lap. "No… I don't think I'm as talented as you think. The best in Lima? Perhaps. The real world? It's a different ball game."

"Where I come from… well, the _school_ I come from," Rachel corrected, "is full of the most talented performers on the face of the earth. Kids who start performing as soon as they can pick up an instrument, vocalize, or stand on their own."

She shifted in her seat. "Some of them… some of them come out of Middle School with their souls just intact. There's still some passion left in them, in their eyes. That burning enthusiasm, you know?"

"Yes," Quinn responded softly, hazel eyes dulling. "Yes, I do know."

She'd possessed it once.

Rachel nodded. "Imagine… imagine that life gone from their eyes. That's how they become. Soulless, passionless creatures performing their art out of obligation and monetary need rather than enjoyment."

"Imagine being filled with passion for your art and then imagine being surrounded by the drones of the soulless," Rachel's eyes closed as she shook her head lightly. "Some of these kids are just… breathtaking. They could sing and dance routines in their sleep. Yet… yet their performances are nothing without soul."

"I have a soul, Quinn," coffee colored orbs opened slowly. "And I feel like I'm the living walking amongst the dead. I have no one to turn to, no one to talk to… Just like everyone else in this room."

Rachel's eyes connected with the blonde's. "Just like you."

Haunting brown bore heavily into Quinn's soul. Inside, she could feel herself break apart. Unsightly emotional scars ripped open and oozed their venomous content into her heart.

And just as she felt herself prepare to flee, prepare to break down, a delicate hand caught hers beneath the table. The warmth drove the chilliness away from the scarred organ.

There was Rachel, with those unforgettable eyes, holding her down. Driving away the pain. Away the anger and the hurt.

…Making her feel like she was worth something for the first time in years.

"I've told my story," wavy locks cascaded over Rachel's slight shoulders as she leaned forward, grasping Quinn's hand tightly. "How about you tell yours now?"

The blonde looked down at her coffee stained lap. Milk white skin mixed with dark, tanned brown.

Rachel Berry scared her. She was perceptive. She was beautiful.

And Quinn had more at risk. Trusting this stranger. Opening herself up just to be hurt once more. She didn't know if she could take the disappointment again.

Her mind. Her _sanity_… This was a gamble.

'_But is it a gamble worth taking?'_ Quinn thought to herself, studying the patient singer across from her.

"Are you…" the dreamer closed her eyes briefly breathing in. She opened them again. "Are you going to… judge me?"

Rachel merely cocked her head. Confusion shone in every crease of her face.

"Judge you?" she questioned. "What right do I have to _judge_ you?"

And the former cheerleader observed the girl's face. Searched for any fallacies in the girl's statement.

But there were none. Brown orbs were as steady as ever, matching the serious, unwavering hold of genuine emotion in the singer's features.

Taking a shaky breath, Quinn settled into her chair, every muscle tense. She gave the hand in her own a gentle squeeze, taking comfort from its warmth.

"Then you better make yourself at home," the cheerleader looked away. "Because it's a long story."

Rachel leaned forward, propping herself up on her remaining arm, entwining tanned digits with pale counterparts.

"I don't need to be anywhere," the singer responded. A gentle, encouraging smile spread across her features.

"I'll stay as long as you need. As long as it takes."

Trips to the coffeehouse became a ritual.

Each day, Quinn drove down into the heart of Lima through high piles of snow to order a cup of sludge and watch Rachel sing.

And each day, after her set was complete, Rachel would sit at the little, chipped mahogany table in the corner of the room and converse with Quinn.

That first day, Quinn shared her story, albeit reluctantly, with the singer.

It felt awkward, at first, sharing so much of herself with a stranger. She'd only known Rachel for at least ten minutes, if you didn't count the healthy amount of… observing she carried out the week before.

Quinn was used to the judgmental glares. The licentious comments. The sneers and jeers as she passed down the halls. It'd become background noise. Something she would have to endure in her remaining time in Lima.

But Rachel did not offer judgment. She sat still, nodding and offering little comments here and there. The singer offered words of sympathy at some junctures, and looks of outright fury (towards those who wronged her new friend) at others.

It felt good to have an unbiased party listen to the story. To reaffirm her decisions, to offer kind words where others had not.

To comfort.

Rachel left the shop after receiving a text message. She scowled at the device, apologized to, and headed out the door into the falling snow.

Before she left, she pressed a folded napkin into Quinn's hand with that smile on her lips.

"You can call me anytime you need, Quinn," Rachel had said, folding your fingers over it.

"Why are you being so…" Quinn attempted to find a nicer way to phrase it. "So… nice to me?"

"Because," The singer drew back. "Lonely souls need friends."

It was strange, how quickly they became 'friends.'

Because the next day, Quinn knew almost everything about Rachel Berry.

It hadn't been easy to coax Rachel forth from her shell. It took a good deal of maneuvering through the singer's barriers before she even spoke a word about her own life.

Lima was Rachel's hometown. Her mother surrogated for two gay men (Papa and Dad—Rachel called them respectively) in exchange for enough money to make it to the Big Apple.

Growing up, she'd been teased and tormented for not being 'normal.' They shoved her, threw drinks on her, and had a tendency to call her 'faggotty anne' on a regular basis. Rachel bore it with a smile on her lips and a sunny disposition.

Hiram and Leroy Berry were the greatest fathers anyone could ask for, according to Rachel. They made sure that Rachel had anything she desired, spent as much time as needed with their daughter, and made a point of dedicating one night per week to spending time together as a family.

But they were oblivious to their daughter's pain. Too buried in their notion of a 'perfect' and likeable daughter. They failed to see Rachel's suffering and accepted easy explanations about the stains on Rachel's clothes or the cuts on her body

Rachel, however, couldn't take it anymore.

She searched for performing arts schools. The best, the ones that would give her the greatest edge on stage.

A place where kids as talented as she was would appreciate her. Maybe she'd even have friends.

So she applied to an Arts School in California.

It wasn't everything she'd wanted.

Many of the kids were frighteningly intense, and Rachel's was happy to see that. She'd waited a long time for a place where people took their craft as seriously as she took hers.

But underneath that intenseness… the passion, the love for their art, was gone. Siphoned away by years of forced practice.

They performed their pieces mechanically, without any sort of emotion pouring through their fingers, through pens, through cameras, their mouths.

And Rachel didn't fit in with them.

Not when she still _felt_. Still _bled_ into every song.

"What are you doing back here, though?" Quinn questioned on Monday. Rachel sipped at a thermos of coffee from home. "Why would you come back to Lima?"

"It's… winter break, Quinn," Rachel smiled wryly.

"I-I know… but… if you could stay there, would you?" she asked. "Or… would you want to come back here?"

"I'd come back here, of course," Rachel responded without hesitation.

"But-."

"_Why?_"

"Yes."

Rachel sighed, crossing her arms for a moment, thinking. "…Lima… Lima isn't the most _fascinating _place on Earth."

Quinn snorted.

"_Okay_, it's really boring," the singer admitted. "But… My Fathers live here, so I have to come back to see them and… You know. Even if this place is filled with bad memories, it's still part of who I am."

One hand came to finger the thermos lid. "I have my dance teacher. My Fathers. Childhood memories. Like it or not, Lima's a crucial part of me. I just choose to embrace the _good_ rather than the bad. And if I think about the bad… well… I just learn the lessons that those bad moments taught me."

"And you know Quinn," Rachel smiled brightly. "If I hadn't come back to Lima for break this year, I never would have had the opportunity to meet you."

A fierce blush painted its way across Quinn's cheeks as the singer let her hand fall beneath the table to clasp Quinn's. "You're just… another good thing about this place, you know?"

"I'm the farthest thing from… a good thing, Rachel," she murmured, the red still staining her features. "I slept with my boyfriend's best friend-."

"You were drunk."

"Got knocked up."

"Not exactly your fault. Again, you were drunk."

"Got kicked out of my parents' house."

"They were stupid and your mother is making amends."

"Bullied everyone in school."

"A phase."

"And I-," Quinn breathed in deeply. Her heart burned with shame. The cross around her neck burned and grew heavier with each passing moment.

"You?" Rachel prodded gently.

"I slept with…" Quinn closed her eyes, tears beginning to drip down her cheeks. "I slept with a girl."

'_She'll think I'm disgusting_,' she thought to herself bitterly. '_She'll think I'm a failure.'_

But all Rachel did was blink and shrug her shoulders. "So?"

Quinn froze. "What do you mean 'so?'"

"I mean exactly that," Rachel said, brow furrowing. "It's not like you… committed murder… Did you knife the bitch or something?"

"No!" Quinn yelped, eyes widening in disbelief. "Where the hell did that come from, Rachel?"

The singer shrugged again. "Well you're acting like you did something terrible"

"I did!" Quinn said angrily. "I _slept _with her."

"I didn't know fucking was a crime," Rachel stated neutrally, making Quinn's jaw drop.

"Rachel," she hissed.

"Quinn, we're both adults here," the singer said simply. "Just call things like they are. You fucked a girl. So what?"

"I did _not_," Quinn looked about the room, before lowering her voice, "_fuck_ her."

"Oh, so she fucked you," Rachel snapped her fingers, nodding her head in understanding.

"RACHEL!"

"Ohhhhh," the girl's eyebrow lifted in understanding as she looked at the cross necklace Quinn furiously entwined her fingers with. "You're closeted Christian gay in denial."

"I-I'm not," Quinn's cheeks reddened furiously. "I-I'm not in denial… It's just-."

"Against the bibles teachings?" the singer said wryly. "Yes, I'm very aware. I'm well acquainted with _all_ those writings."

"Then you know," the blonde looked down upon her hands in shame, "that acting… that having… you know…"

"Sex?"

"Yes, that," Quinn's blush deepened. "You know that it's against the teachings to lust after women. What I did… it was wrong and it was immoral. The teachings are absol-."

"-Lutely bullshit."

Hazel eyes hardened. "Pardon?"

"The bible is bullshit," Rachel repeated easily. "Well… a majority of it. I will admit the text holds many merits. But you have to remember: how many times has the bible been altered throughout history?"

Quinn froze. "I'm… I'm not sure."

"The bible was spread by word of mouth for the first hundred years of its creation, Quinn," Rachel bent her head back, staring at the ceiling. "And after that, there were many gospels. _Many_ texts that never survived time. Some were burned, others were altered. Some people add things to the bible, some take away."

And then there was that little smile again as Rachel righted herself again. "And can _love_ really be all that much of a sin, Quinn?"

All at once, it felt as though some sort of tremendous weight had lifted off her shoulders. She didn't feel as though she were falling apart at the seams anymore. Like she'd been a failure for the last two years of her life. She felt… validated.

"No," the former cheerleader murmured. "No… I don't think it is."

Rachel chuckled. "I didn't think it was."

That was the end of that conversation.

It bewildered Quinn. The ease with which Rachel could sweep all the problems under the rug. Make her feel whole again. And to some extent, the singer still scared her.

Scared her because she was making her _feel_ things.

After five days of truly 'knowing' Rachel, she'd sensed it.

The singer had been in the middle of her daily set, eyes closed and fingers poised over the keys. It was a sight that Quinn had grown used to. It made her feel at home in the little coffeehouse. Let her know that, in some strange way, she _belonged_.

The spotlight caught Rachel's slight figure, casting reddish halos about her head, making her eyes sparkle in the light as they opened to sing the last verse of the song.

And Quinn lost the ability to breathe.

Because while she acknowledged that Rachel Berry was… _beautiful_, was one of a kind, she hadn't meant to feel this way.

Hadn't meant to see Rachel Berry transfigure up on that stage before her. Hadn't meant the lights to illuminate every single little crease of the singer's face to make her seem like some ethereal being.

And she certainly hadn't made her heart speed up so that it beat wildly against her chest, or made her cheeks heat up.

Quinn was completely, utterly _fucked_ because somewhere along the short, week and five day period, she'd fallen in love with Rachel fucking Berry.

It was inconceivable. It was _impossible_.

Not because she felt… _ashamed_ of her feelings—though a twinge of remorse still echoed heavily in her heart whenever she found herself… _admiring_ women.

But because falling in love with someone was supposed to take _months _or _years_.

Not a week of watching someone sing and five days of conversation.

And even if she… **did** feel a little bit more than platonic emotions for Rachel, the singer would return to school when Winter Break was through. They only had a week or so left before Rachel packed up her bags, her perfect smile, and her talent to fly back to California.

Rachel would forget about her, about their time together, and go back to gunning for Broadway.

She _tried_ to choke it down. **Tried** _desperately_ to hold back those emotions. She'd been so successful at doing so in the past. How would _this_ emotion be any different?

But Rachel smiled at her, spoke softly with her. Encouraged her, made her feel _better_ than she was.

And all hope was lost. She couldn't contain herself. Couldn't put a leash on love.

Because as much experience as Quinn had with every other emotion in the book—anger, happiness, sadness, jealousy—she had little experience handling love.

It was _hard_. What she wanted was right at her fingertips. Was laughing with her, conversing with her, **holding her hand**.

It hurt **so** much.

But she couldn't figure out a way to say it, because she _sucked_ at expressing emotion.

The most experience she had with a woman was the one night stand with Harmony, and that had been a drunken mistake.

Men were easy enough to please and wrap around your finger. But women? Hell, despite the fact she was a girl, Quinn had little clue on how to handle the whole _confessing/wooing_ thing.

And admittedly, it probably _hadn't_ been the best idea to go to her 'best friend' Santana to ask for help. But Santana had experience, because, as the Latina declared on more than one occasion, 'the only straight I am is a straight up _bitch_.'

"You're _gay_?" Santana fell backwards in her booth at Breadstix and laughed so hard, it drew the frightened gazes of almost every patron in the joint.

"Could you be any _louder_?" Quinn hissed, throwing plastic smiles to reassure the clientele of their harmlessness.

"I-I'm sorry," Santana wiped her eyes, holding a hand to her chest to calm her breathing. "It's just… No one would've _ever_ seen this coming. "Christ Crusader" Quinn Fabray is actually Quinn Fabgay!"

The Latina broke out into another chorus of laughter. "Oh, all the poor douches you strung along for the last several years!"

"Are you _done_ yet?" Quinn muttered, growing redder by the moment. This was a **terrible** idea.

"Yeah, yeah," Santana waved her hand, before grabbing a breadstick and biting down on it. "So tell me, who unpressed your lemon?"

"Unpressed my-?"

"Who made you realize you like fucking girls?" the Latina asked bluntly.

"My God, Santana," Quinn groaned, "you're almost as bad as Rachel."

"Rachel?" a dark eyebrow rose in question.

The blonde turned a nice shade of crimson. "Yes… Rachel."

"Ohhh, I see," Santana smirked. "_Rachel."_

"Could you say her name in a way that _doesn't_ send chills up my spine?"

"God, Q, I know I'm hot… but I'm taken."

"I didn't mean it in _that_ way, S!"

"Closeted lesbians are so much _fun_," Santana smirked. "So tell me, what's the deal? You like this Rachel person. Why haven't gotten into her pants with your smarmy Fabray charm?"

"Because I don't want to get into her pants," Quinn said stubbornly. "I-I really like her, S. I _really_ do. But she's only going to be here for another week before she goes home and… I-I just want her to know she's important."

Santana blinked. "Damn, Q. You _must_ be wetting your knickers over her if you're _actually_-."

"Hey-."

"Being a damn wuss about the entire thing."

"A wuss?" Quinn snapped. "What the _hell_ are you talking about, Lopez?"

"You're being a fucking _wuss_, Fabray!"

"I am-."

"What would you have done if you wanted something before, Q?" Santana questioned, leaning back in the booth.

"I would've used everything in my disposal to get it," Quinn replied simply. "No matter what the complications or consequences, it would've been mine."

"And then you got your ass Preggo," Santana held up a finger to stop any protests, "and became a fucking _mess_. You started crying about every _little_ thing on the face of the earth. Now this girl, Raquel or whatever the hell her name is, is making you a better person, and all you're going to do is tell her how _important_ she is to you? Fuck, if that isn't a wuss move, I don't know **what** is."

"She's going to be _gone_ in a week, Santana!" Quinn raged, pushing her hands over her eyes. "She's going to be gone in fucking California and I'm going to be _stuck_ here. What the _hell_ do you want me to do?"

"Fight!" Santana responded, as though it were the most obvious solution. "Fight for the fucking girl. Go for long distance. Because if _you_ don't get her, some other douche will!"

Quinn's jaw locked and her heart burned.

Rachel… with someone _else_? Rachel, kissing some nameless man? Rachel, smiling and laughing with someone else?

Rachel… _singing_ for someone else?

The image stung. It cut deep and throbbed. She couldn't imagine it. Rachel, in some person's arms. Some lucky fucker's arms. Someone who didn't understand and treasure her as much as Quinn would.

The wound sizzled and her fists practically trembled with anger.

_Hell_ no. No one would have _Rachel_ if she couldn't.

"But," the determination faded in her veins. "How, Santana? How can I… How _do_ I tell her?"

"Do I have to do every. _fucking_. _thing_, Q?" Santana sighed, polishing up another Breadstick before pulling a lump sum of money out of her pocket and throwing it on the table. She grabbed Quinn's arm, pulling the blonde toward the door. "Come on."

"W-where are we going?"

"It's Christmas, Tubbers," Santana smirked. "And you're going to treat your little wet dream to some holiday lovin'. We're gonna go shopping and find you something _decent_ to give to your girl."

It took a good several hours to find the _perfect_ thing for Rachel—a gold treble clef necklace (it wasn't the most _expensive _thing in the world)—and another few to rehearse exactly what she planned to say.

She tried, _really_ tried to do it on Friday during the Christmas Eve set so she could give Rachel some time to process everything.

But Rachel'd gotten a little more attention after her gig than usual. Boys were swarming about her, people asked for autographs, and others tried to carry on conversation with the singer.

So Quinn sat fingering the chain of the necklace, gritting her teeth as she watched people _flirt_ with Rachel. Any lingering doubts the former cheerleader had about _not_ having any of romantic feelings for the brunette were instantly dispelled.

She felt a little pissed about the whole thing. Especially when the 'fan time' ran over and Rachel had to apologize profusely to Quinn about not having a chance to speak with her that day.

But it would be fine. She'd have her chance. Rachel would still be in Lima on Christmas day. She'd still be sitting in the coffeehouse at that janky old piano, singing her heart out for at least another week.

That didn't stop her from being nervous when the actual moment to confess came.

Rachel waved the crowd off, smiling and shirking off their inquiries as she made her way toward the small little table where Quinn sat ramrod straight, palms sweating.

The blonde stood from her seat, grabbing Rachel's arm as the singer reached to pull a chair out. Reddish brown eyes glinted with confusion as pale cheeks reddened.

"Rach… do you mind if we step outside for a bit?"

The pianist shook her head. "No, I don't mind at all. In fact, it'll be a good change in atmosphere."

'_God, she's cute_,' Quinn thought numbly as the brunette pulled her black and white plaid scarf tighter about her neck and straightened the school cap on her head.

"Ready to go?" Rachel questioned, pushing her hands into the pockets of her red, quilted jacket.

"Y-yeah," Quinn nodded, pushing the door to the coffeehouse open, motioning her companion through.

"How chivalrous, Quinn Fabray," Rachel put her hand to her heart in a mock swoon, a devious grin on her lips. "Who would've known the poor conversationalist could be such a gentlewoman!"

"It was the cup of coffee on my lap, Rach," Quinn scowled. Thank God for their playful banter. It eased the tension a bit.

The two of them stepped out into the snow, beginning to trudge slowly down the white streets.

"Again, is that an excuse?" A chocolate eyebrow lifted in amusement.

"No, it's a _reason_," Quinn said staunchly.

"So it _is_ an excuse!" Rachel chirruped, laughing as Quinn smacked her gently with a gloved hand.

"You're a troublemaker, Rachel Berry," Quinn smirked, grabbing the laughing Rachel in her arms.

"Oh, pfft, you know you love it," the singer turned around, giving Quinn a light shove.

Hazel eyes softened and the corners of Quinn's mouth gentled to a smile. "You're right. I _do_ love it."

A gloved finger rose and played across Rachel's cheek, making brown orbs flutter at the sensation.

God, she was beautiful. Rachel Berry, with her little cap, all bundled for winter with rosy cheeks, bright eyes, and her breath fogging before those wind kissed lips.

She was beautiful, real, warm… She was _home_. She was everything Quinn had ever wanted

"Rachel," the blonde's voice was low and husky. "I… I just want you to know how much the last few days have meant to me. You're such a wonderful friend."

She took a shaky breath as she continued.

"You made me… _really_ look at myself. You made me feel better about all the decisions I made last year. When I'm with you, I don't feel… so broken anymore."

"You _aren't_ broken, Quinn," Rachel said, lifting her own hand to her cheek, stroking Quinn's with her thumb. "No one really is. Just lost."

"You found me though," Quinn drew the girl closer. "You put me on the right path again, and I'm always going to remember you for that."

The singer's brow furrowed confusedly. "Quinn, you're making this sound morbid. What's-."

"Nothing's wrong," Quinn laughed, giving the girl a watery smile. "Nothing's wrong at all. It's just… I'm so glad I met you, Rachel."

She dropped her hand from the girl's cheek. It trembled as she reached into her pocket, finding the warm metal of the necklace.

"I-…I wanted to give you something to remember me by," Quinn pressed it into Rachel's hand gently. "You know, when you're back in sunny California, living it up."

Rachel looked into her palm, tears beginning to fall from her eyes before she looked up at Quinn with a smile on her face. "I _love_ it, Quinn. Thank you… it's… the best Christmas gift I've ever gotten."

Warm arms found their way about Quinn's frame as Rachel buried her face into the blonde's shoulder.

Quinn savored the embrace for as long as she could. Memorized the feel of Rachel's body against her own.

Because after this? Who knew if they would still remain friends?

Who knew if Rachel would **ever** speak to her again?

She gently drew back just enough to look into Rachel's eyes, swallowing heavily and gathering up her courage.

Her hands drew up once more, gently caressing Rachel's cheeks as she looked lovingly into the girl's confused eyes.

"Rach… I…" she closed her eyes for a moment, drawing a shaky breath in. "I-I wanted to tell you…"

She forced her eyes open once more, looking firmly into Rachel's eyes. "I really… I _really_ like you Rachel."

Rachel's brow furrowed in confusion. "I… really like you too, Quinn."

"N-no," the blonde shook her head. "I-I mean… I _like _you. I-I think you're beautiful and special… and I-I want to kiss you and date you a-and-."

A warm, chapped surface pressed against Quinn's lips, robbing her of air.

Small, delicate fingers… pianist's fingers, wound their way through silky blonde hair as the former cheerleader stood petrified.

_Rachel Berry_ was kissing _her_.

Rachel Berry was **kissing** her, and she was a fucking _amazing_ kisser.

'_Maybe God does exist,'_ Quinn thought dazedly, letting out a loud groan when a devious tongue swept its way across her bottom lip.

Pressing Rachel closer to her body, Quinn responded with equal fervor.

The singer tasted of coffee and mint and smelled of cinnamon. The touch of her lips was addictive. They caressed hers evenly and applied just the right amount of force.

Everything felt… right.

All at once, the pressure was gone and the kiss ended, leaving the two girls panting heavily as they looked to each other.

"Sometimes," Rachel smiled, gathering up air again. "Sometimes you don't _need_ to have a conversation to get a point across, Quinn."

"And what sort of point would that be, Rach?" the blonde questioned smoothly.

Rachel scowled. "You can't be _serious_, Quinn."

"I've never felt anything this _real_, Rachel," Quinn's cheeks colored prettily. "I don't know what you want from me. I'm not good at reading other's emotions… So… what _do_ you want from me?"

Rachel sighed, giving one of those small smiles. "You'd think the kiss would make it obvious enough…"

"Rach-."

"I know, I know," the singer rubbed Quinn's neck comfortingly. She looked into dark, emerald eyes. "I like you Quinn. I think there was always a part of me that did when I saw you walk into the shop two weeks ago."

"You're a good, kind soul. You're better than I think you know," Rachel brushed golden locks out of her companion's eyes. "And I'd be _honored_ if you'd date me… If you don't mind the distance."

Quinn sniffled. "You're not going to run off with some hot singer at school, are you?"

"No," Rachel tapped her chin. "I think my girlfriend would be a bit upset if I did that, hmm?"

The blonde grinned. "Mmmm, I think she would be. And I think that even the mention of that idea makes her a bit upset."

"Poor girl," the pianist drawled, drawing closer to her companion. "Whatever can I do to make it up to her?"

"A kiss would be a nice start," Quinn supplied helpfully.

"Well, it _is _Christmas," Rachel smirked. "It'd be… _wrong_ of me not to make her feel better."

"I agree with this statement," Quinn purred.

And as their lips pressed together, Quinn smiled happily for the first time in years.

Because, even if she'd fucked up so many times in her life, the day she stumbled into the coffeehouse had been the best fuck up of her life.

Without it she might have never seen Rachel.

Without it she might have never spilled that damn cup of coffee on her lap.

Without it, Quinn might never have had Rachel Berry.

And Rachel was the best thing in her life.

Rachel was _home_.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Did you like it? I hope you all did. Again, I'd love to hear what you think, so if you have the time, leave a comment.

If you'd ever like to send me a message or just know when the latest writings are coming out, or just hear about my life in general, check my tumblr. **The link is on my profile page**.


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